Tonight
by Kijakazibibi
Summary: John wills himself to look steadily back into Per's eyes, the pupils blown wide in the low light. There is a ring of gold around the irises, the way Sherlock's are ringed in dark blue. He clears his throat.  "You remind of someone."


**NOTE:** Slightly edited form of story with same title posted on AO3 8/2/2011. Character name changed to avoid the impression of drawing vague parallels to other worlds (possibly including but not to be confused with RL) and getting people's panties all in a twist by using or not using names and visages poorly sketched out with adjectives, sentence fragments and dangling participles that could or could not be related to something real or otherwise imaginary.

M/M ; John W./OMC ; Angst

**TONIGHT by Kijakazibibi**

"Mind yer own business, ya bloody little hobbit."

Mentally, John sighs. He really is very tired of that one, but what else could one expect from your average drunken lout? If he'd wanted to spend the night trading witty bon mots he would have just stayed home.

John sets his jaw. "I really suggest you leave him be."

"And I really suggest you go fuck yerself." Radiating his exact intent and making the big man's mistake of not protecting himself, the drunk grabs for John's shoulders.

Really, it's just too easy. And John's been drinking too. It's miles beyond easy. It's pathetic.

John gives him a half-hearted knee to the groin and when the drunk doubles over John brings both fists down in a chop to the back of the neck while he brings his knee up again, this time into the drunk's chin. It's a controlled take down, looks vicious but isn't particularly and isn't likely to do any permanent damage, just disable. Still the big man meets the boards hard and lays there groaning, one hand cupping his privates, the other over his bloody nose.

Disagreement over.

_John will not be fucking himself tonight, _John thinks.

Almost before the drunk hits the floor a bouncer has John by the upper arm and back collar and is dragging him towards the nearest exit. This is alright. John doesn't fight it. He sees that another bouncer has the younger man, not the drunk, but the drunk's first intended victim, by the scruff also and is following in their wake.

John lets himself be tumbled out the back door of the pub and into what seems like a muffle of silence after the amplified blast of the live music.

John does regret that. He liked the band a lot. He liked the grungy, muddy guitars and the singer's low, slurred voice. It reminded him of some of the music the younger soldiers listened to in Afghanistan. It took him back into that world of soldiers, men, camaraderie.

John feels his body riding out a minor wave of adrenalin. He takes in a deep breath of cool air and sighs it out quietly, feels the tension in his shoulders sink. A low chuckle reminds him he hasn't been thrown out alone and he looks over.

"That," the young man says with a loopy, tipsy grin, stepping a bit off-balance and falling back casually into the wall to hide it "was just fucking spectacular."

John gives a sheepish half-grin. "He was drunk."

"Regardless. He had me pinned."

John shrugs. "You alright? Didn't mean to just butt in but you looked…."

The younger man waves it away, rolls his eyes. "Don't know exactly what I did to attract his undivided attention."

_Nothing. Except that you are beautiful. He's been watching you all night. So have I. _

John blushes at his own thoughts and is grateful for the darkness in the back drive. He considers that he himself may be no less of a predator than the drunk, just a more controlled one.

"I owe you a drink, at least," the younger man raises an eyebrow. His eyes are dark, not a grey that in the right angle can appear white, but a man can't have everything, can he?

If he could he wouldn't be picking fights in bars.

John takes another deep breath and huffs it out, conceding with a nod that a drink would be okay. The younger man smiles again at John, all crooked lips and high cheekbones. John never imagined you could ever replicate those.

"I can barely think anymore, after all that noise in there."

"Me neither," John admits. "Could be the pints though."

His companion chuckles again and nods agreeably and then gestures down the street with his long chin. They fall in line beside each other and walk in comfortable silence, the echoes of amplifier buzz filling in for conversation. John keeps his mind carefully puttering along in neutral.

At the pub they wander into John stands back, watching the younger man squeeze his way to the bar and order two pints. He's the same slender height although his proportions are different in back and legs and his hair is brown with gingered highlights and he's got a shadow of mustache and beard going. He moves with the same cat grace though and he has the same deep, measured public school voice. And it is really the voice that does it for John. John closes his eyes and tips back against a pillar in the barroom.

He is drunker than he first realized.

He is feeling dangerous, which he's known all along.

The copper-colored draught is sweet, not something John usually likes, but this one is refreshing and he likes how it goes with all the other colors of the room: browns and golds and rust reds and unexpected greens, like the olive of the young man's eyes and John thinks that he must be very drunk indeed to be standing here considering the aesthetics of the situation he's managed to manufacture for himself.

"Per," the young man says, standing closer than he really needs to – the place isn't that crowded – but perhaps his ears haven't cleared out yet and he's afraid otherwise he'd be shouting across a quiet room.

"Sorry?" John blinks at him.

"Per," the young man says again with his easy smile, not tight and fake or sharp-edged with irony, and John realizes he's holding out his hand. "Short for Peregrine," he grimaces when he says it. "Family name. I hate it, but not as much as 'Perry'."

Of course John would have contentedly continued on with the whole sordid mess of tonight without names, he's done so before, but finds himself pleased to be asked.

"John." He sees the briefest flicker of doubt pass through Per's eyes, and John's tempted to assure him that if he was going to make up a name he could come up with a better one than "John" – "Arnold," for instance, being one he's always been particularly fond of on multiple levels. But the flicker is brief, a match lit and extinguished in the time that it takes to press their hands together. Perhaps the younger man is feeling dangerous tonight too.

That would certainly be fortuitous.

Per's hand is large and warm and, John notes, unexpectedly calloused. John doesn't expect men with Per's accent to work with their hands much. But John knows that his own hands are deceptively soft. From having caught touches of frostbite in Afghanistan, from being a doctor and washing them all the time, he has to put lotion on them constantly or all the slowed circulation and harsh medical soap make them crack in cold weather.

Good lord, John's brain is all over the map tonight and he should get a marshal on it. Per looks at him expectantly and he wonders if Per said something he didn't catch while he was off wool gathering over hand creams. He's afraid that what will come out of Per's mouth is a comment he overheard once at uni from a girl he'd been trying to chat up: "He's kind of an odd little duckling, isn't he?"

Worse than being considered a hobbit, that's for sure. At least hobbits can show themselves to be brave.

Of course, hobbits aren't real.

_Last pint_, John promises himself, _very last pint tonight._

"So, what exactly was it that inspired you to rescue me back there," Per asks. He keeps his voice lower than he needs to, stands closer than he needs to, bends his head just that much further than he has to for John to hear him and it has an effect on John. It bloody well does and John is glad for the length of his jacket.

John takes another gulp of the draught. _Very. Last. Pint. Tonight._

"I wouldn't call it a rescue…."

"I would," Per says. "Completely mental, that guy. I'm surprised he hasn't ended up in the Thames with his throat cut yet. I was afraid I was going to end up that way."

"Guess one of you isn't keeping the right company." John tries to joke it away, but Per won't let him off that easily. He just waits, watching until John gets the sense that there isn't much point in being coquettish about what's going on here. John's gay-dar is as good as anybody's, and he's fairly sure he's okay here, but one can never tell until he actually steps off the edge of that cliff.

John wills himself to look steadily back into Per's eyes, the pupils blown wide in the low light. There is a ring of gold around the irises, the way Sherlock's are ringed in dark blue. He clears his throat.

"You remind me of someone."

If Per were Sherlock he would have smirked at this, as if John had just laid bare the motivation for everything he'd ever done in his life up to and including this point and then, assuming—no, _deducing_ – the only logical reason would have to do with himself he would have said in his drawling, _boring_ tone, "Fancying a shag with me then?"

Sherlock would have dropped it right there on the floor between them like a heavy book to a table. Bang. And he would have done it just to see what would happen.

_Be nice_, John admonishes himself.

He would have done it just because that's the way he is. It wouldn't have occurred to him what kind of an affect it would have on John, to hear it spoken so dismissively.

And so…hence…here he is with this Per person….

And happily, Per doesn't dismiss. With a lifted eyebrow he infers – _deduces_ – (And hadn't John and Sherlock had a three day-long row over the semantics of those two words?) but not in a judgmental way. "And is that a good thing or a bad thing? I'm thinking it must be good, since I'm here with you rather than in the alley behind Skip getting unwillingly rodgered by a steroid freak."

"Well…yes…" John agrees and stutters a bit, realizing he's not going to be as smooth with this as he'd been leading himself to believe all along. "Yes…I…I think it's good. You…being here with me, I mean…rather than…." He gives up when Per laughs, but it is a gentle laugh, delighted and delightful and John can't help smiling along with it.

John looks away and takes another gulp of his beer and notes that it is emptying rapidly. _Absolutely last pint_, he starts reminding himself sternly again, but then Per's voice, _that_ voice, is in his ear again, and John can feel it at the side of his neck and smell it: beery, but also other things.

John thinks of warm apples and cinnamon.

"What, exactly is it that you want, then, John? From somebody who looks like somebody you know?"

Per's face is soft and open and kind, despite the sharp angles, despite the resemblances. And so John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and tells him. In generalities and some specifics John confesses into the white shell of ear what exactly it is that he wants from someone who looks like someone he knows.

War and Sherlock be dammed, John has rarely felt such terror.

When he gets to the end John shuts his mouth and opens his eyes. Per is looking at him carefully, and his pupils have eaten away all the iris left in his eyes, leaving just the black and the gold rim around them and John thinks that that is truly amazing, except that he thinks his pupils might be doing the exact same thing to his own eyes and John never thinks of himself as amazing.

_Jesus…Last goddamn pint…._

"Come," Per commands, pulling on John's forearm briefly, setting down his half-finished glass on a nearby table, settling into his coat all in one smooth move.

John follows, obedient as a Westie going out for walkies.

Per twists through a series of narrow roads and alleys of the neighborhood. He is clearly familiar with the area. He has someplace in mind. At one point he grabs John's forearm again to hurry him along and this time he doesn't let go. John follows the shoulders, a bit broader than they ought to be, the back a bit longer than it should be. He's having trouble breathing. He wants this. He should know enough not to, but God, he does _want_ this.

In a narrow alley off a quiet street, Per stops and shoves him roughly against a brick wall. The back of John's head barks against it relatively hard, enough to see some stars. But, there's no time to register the pain or the stars because Per is kissing him and he tastes of autumn. John thinks of fallen leaves and sunshine on hay and bright skies and bonfires and hard cider and going inside to a warm room after a day spent out in the cold. Per's hands wrap around his head and protect it from hitting the wall again and Per's tongue is soft and insistent at the same time and John feels like things are falling through him, dropping and falling and raining down through his chest, striking nerves inside as they go, leaving him vibrating and reverberating everywhere and he reaches under Per's coat and grabs up fistfuls of shirt.

Per thrusts him back hard against the wall again and one hand pulls from behind John's head and yanks down the zip on his jacket and digs further down, squeezes roughly on the bulge at the front of his jeans and he groans into Per's mouth. Per's hands pull and yank at shirt buttons and some come free and some break their strings and patter like raindrops and John doesn't care, he really doesn't. And his own hands are running up and down that longer than it should be back and clutching at the bands of muscle at that thin but not quite thin enough waist and John pushes back with his hands and his body and his own tongue. Pushes hard…hard….

Per slaps at John's hands. "No, John," he gasps, low, practically a growl, his forehead to John's, his breath panting into John's mouth. "No….My lead…. like you want…." He shoves John back against the wall yet again and John lets him. Per's hands scrabble and pull at John's belt and fly. Digs in, digs him free and Per's mouth is a frenzy on his neck, his chest, his belly, lower.

_God…Oh, god…._

John pulls his fingers through the curls on Per's head and he watches, even if he can't see much because of dark and shadow. That really just makes it better. It makes it just that much better. He grips tight into that soft hair and thrusts his hips up, but then Per reaches up and twines his fingers with John's and pulls them from his hair. He grabs John's wrists and pushes them against the wall and John can feel the brick scratching into the skin.

Per takes his mouth away and John sucks in a breath in frustration. "Don't move John." The voice is low and calm and slightly menacing and Per's eyes glitter up at him in the dark and John's heartbeat ramps up a few more systolic contractions per minute. "Don't move or I'll stop. I swear I will. I'll walk away." He takes one hand from John's and presses it against John's belly, pushes John back until he is truly flat against the wall: head, shoulders, arse….John gulps and nods his consent. "Good. Good, John," Per's voice is so low. He holds onto John's wrist again. "Better. Now…remember: no moving."

Per takes his time now, maddeningly slow: kissing, nuzzling, licking softly, letting go of John's wrist briefly to run a finger here and there, up and down and then taking hold of the wrist again, gently this time, thumb against the bone, feeling John's pulse there. He shushes John between licks and kisses and gentle, shallow sucks, his breath warm and cool at the same time on the damp skin of John's cock and John shivers.

"Still," Per whispers. "Be still, John."

John draws in a deep breath through his nose and tries to get a grip, tries to still himself. He wants to obey. He presses his arse into the bricks behind him and stands as still as he can.

And he is rewarded. Per takes him into his mouth again, long slow strokes up and down, and John throws his head back and stares blindly at the rectangle of sky above him and wills himself _not to move._

And it's good. It's so good: the restraint and the pleasure and the denial and indulgence all at once.

_So goddamn good._

Per lets go of John's hands, but John leaves them pressed against the wall. Per's hands move though, slide and stroke: to John's hips, down his thighs, pushing his pants lower. His mouth is moving quicker now: lips and tongue sucking and swirling on John's glans and then sliding down deep. Then he's fondling John's balls, pulling them further down, squeezing the skin between them to add an odd aching to every other sensation in John's groin. John moans again and imagines taking over, letting go of the wall, grabbing Per's head and fucking that mouth, really fucking it, hard and without care.

He's getting too close. John digs his fingertips harder into the wall, hopes the scratch of it will distract him. He tries counting times tables, but finds himself having trouble with two times eight.

Per's hands slip up and around, between his bottom and the wall, pull him open, fingers slipping into the cleft, rubbing. John shudders. "Careful," he mutters, "too good…too soon." Per's fingers back off, slide harmlessly away down John's thighs and over to his arms again. His mouth relaxes around John, tongue softer. John can't help a low groan of disappointment. Per pulls his mouth free and stands up.

They kiss, oddly gentle, and John can pretend that the kissing comes from a place other than pure animal lust, that it comes from a place that knows him and cares for him. Per drops a line of lip brushes up the length of John's nose, his forehead, into his hair. He can feel Per rub his cheek against the top of his head, he is that much taller. One large hand cradles the back of John's skull again and he senses Per's other hand digging into the pocket of his coat and then pulling free.

Per shows John what he's holding. John notices a slight tremble in the hand. "Lip balm. It's all I've got….But it should work."

John nods quickly, trying not to seem impatient. "Yes. Fine….Condom?"

"In my wallet."

"Good," John swallows heavily again, doesn't look at Per's face, stares into his chest, his shirt showing pale skin where the buttons have been rucked tight to the edges of the buttonholes. "Good, then…."

Per dips his head, catches John's mouth with his own again. John finally takes his hands away from the wall and lets his fingers brush that sharp jawline. He wants to touch him….

Per jerks back, eyes glittering again in the dim light. "No. Not good, John. Turn around now. You're being bad and not following the rules. Turn around and put your hands on the wall. Keep them there or I _will_ stop."

John's head and heart stutter. A part of him is tempted to call it off, to say he doesn't want it this way, he wants it to be shared, equal, at least as artificially caring as the kisses they'd just had or maybe really not at all, because Per isn't who he really wants. But then, he sees how Per is looking at him, tipping his head just so in just the right way, whispering his name in just the right husk with just the faintest of trembles yet willing to let John think it through. And so, John obeys.

And Per takes him apart, tears him into pieces, first with his fingers, one and then two and then three knitted together: insistent, unending, demanding, fingertips Pert so that they force deep, hard shudders through John's body.

"Don't move John….Don't move."

One hand pressing down on the small of his back, half the other inside him, moving in and out, twisting as it goes, and he is begging despite himself: "Please…. Please…. Don't…please…. God, please don't stop…."

No stopping, just a relentless rhythm pulling him inside out until he feels like one raw, exposed expanse of nerve endings.

"Oh God…so close…Jesus, so close…."

The hands leave him abruptly and he's never felt so abandoned, so utterly and completely destitute. The only thing that tethers him to the world outside his own body is the voice, that voice, soft and low. "Be still John, be very still now."

A sound comes out of him, half whimper, half sob.

"Shush, John. It's alright. Shush…just another moment….You can wait just another moment."

The moment rings out forever, echoes, he feels like he's falling into it, falling away from everything. And then a surge, sudden and hard and he wasn't quite expecting it and he's splitting to pieces, falling in a different way and a hand claps over his mouth to keep the sounds stifled.

He's pinned to the wall, fingertips digging for purchase in the grout, his head protected by his forearm, face turned to the side. Desperately he braces his legs against the onslaught, terrified of getting his cock slammed up into the rough brick that holds him up. Per's hand still over his mouth, two fingers push in between his lips and he clings to them with his tongue pushing them against the top of his mouth and he sucks on them hard, _hard_. The younger man's rhythm breaks over him and through him like waves against a shore and he is still. And he lets it happen. Over and over.

Then it's Per who's losing control, who can't keep it together. John can tell by the breaking of the rhythm, the ragged edges of breath. He, John, has done this, made Per's control falter simply by being still. And it's good…This is so good….How could something this good ever be considered wrong? John's own body tenses up and begins to tremble in anticipation.

But Per isn't done for just yet. He pulls John upright and back and they fall apart, both of them moaning from the separation. John totters and Per shoves John down, to his knees and John goes willingly, pleadingly, hands flat to the dirty tarmac, forehead down like a supplicant, like a prayer and Per splits him and pulls all the way out with agonizing slowness and splits him again and again and again and this time John bites his own knuckles to silence himself.

"Don't move, John, don't move….Don't move now…."

His forehead over the spot he was biting now, sliding on his own saliva, and he rocks his head back and forth, whether in agreement or denial he doesn't know. A hand slides around from his hip and touches him, wraps around him and he arches.

"Don't move, John. I'll stop. You know I will…."

"Please, please…." A hiss of a whisper.

"Don't move," the hand slides on him. "Don't."

"I can't…I can't do this…I can't stop…I have to….please…." He knows he's babbling, completely unhinged, drugged out of his mind on alcohol and adrenalin and endorphins and testosterone and desire and fantasy and brain stem physical _need_.

This unbearable, uncontrollable _need_.

"God, please…please…." There's nothing anymore, just this place: the rough ground under his palms and bare knees and shins, the scent of dirt and tar in the air dragging into his lungs, the unending rhythm inside him, the fucking _rhythm_, in him and sliding on him, pulling out of him, pounding through his chest, echoing in his heart, wave after red salty wave. He can't think. He can't do anything but feel it and feel it and feel it in every nerve cell of his body.

Per's losing his own focus again, falling into the same well that John is already drowning in. He drops his other hand from John's hip and reaches forward, makes a fist with John's hand, intertwines the fingers and holds tight, _tight. _John feels that long, thin body curve down over him, blanket him, making him feel less alone, actually possibly cared for, although he ought to know better.

_Doesn't matter…doesn't matter…._

When he arches back into the cup of belly and chest above him there's no admonishment, no threat this time, just a stuttered gasp of appreciation and John feels the younger man press his face into the back of John's neck and hump frantically into him, all grace and control lost.

John thinks he'll die of this. He really does. He wants to, these long agonizing seconds now seem like blood loss, like his guts spooling out, his brain spinning off like tracers into the night sky and his body is jerking and convulsing uncontrollably and somewhere very far away from where he is shattering into a billion shards of _John_ he hears the same thing happening to Per, even feels the jerking pulse of it, but hidden away inside whatever few intact bits of himself are left.

John opens his eyes again and the ground slowly stutters into focus: blocks of light from around corners and off-kilter from high windows with lights on ceilings and half-pulled blinds and the rough, pitted expanse of macadam furling away like a panel in a comic book. The scent of grit and city filth catches in his throat with each lessening heave of his chest. He is still down, knees splayed like a frog's, his head resting on his arm. Per is draped over him like a blanket, heavy, hot.

"My God," Per groans his head on John's shoulder, speaking into his bunched-up shirt and the exit-wound scar beneath. "The French have it all wrong yet again. That was no _petite_ death."

John can't help chuckling a bit as Per rolls sideways off him and flops clumsily onto the ground, whinging as he bangs an elbow on the way down. John rolls sideways too, but then scoots himself up so that he's sitting against the wall, bare arse to the road. He brushes grit and brick dust from his palms, feels how they are scraped a bit raw.

Per groans as he strips the rubber off and when he casually tosses it aside, John finds himself briefly on the edge of a public cleanliness lecture, but really….It's a fucking _alley_. Who else is likely to be down on all fours rolling in the dirt here?

John shakes his head at himself and rubs his hands over his face. He is positively smashed.

Beside him, Per fusses around, yanking his pants up from where they'd fallen to his thighs, settles himself into a seat beside John without zipping or buttoning. Huffs out another big breath. "Okay…well…wow…that was pretty amazing, really."

John nods expansively without speaking.

"Think I've gone through the knees of my trousers though."

A huff of laughter barks out of John's mouth.

"What? It's not a bit good you know! These trousers cost me!"

"I think I've just lost several inches of skin, myself," John says lightly, brushing at his knees and shins, picking at the pebbles that have embedded themselves there, feeling the sticky dampness of some pricks of welling blood that he just wipes off on his shirttail.

"Skin's nothing." Per pouts. "Grow all of that you want for free. Trousers, though, nice ones…A hundred quid…."

"Get off. You're joking."

"Well, okay, not a hundred, but still…."

John shakes his head again in good humor and they both laugh briefly. Per's laugh is good: deep and thick, like melted chocolate. And then they get silent.

It's an okay kind of silence, John thinks, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. It isn't awkward. It's okay. He feels okay about this. He really does.

He's a bit surprised. It isn't always like this.

Per puts a hand gently on John's bare thigh and John starts. Had he drifted off? "Don't go to sleep here bare-arsed, John, it might look awkward in the morning."

"Scare the pigeons," John mumbles and Per giggles.

"Banksy might claim you as a piece."

"Nah. His stuff's not nearly this good." They snort at each other's stupid humor and grow quiet for another long minute, just breathing, but then John feels some silent cue from somewhere and pulls at the waistband of his pants, wriggling into them and trying to wipe dirt off his arse at the same time. He has to stop a couple of times to laugh about it. Per helps him and makes some crack about wiping babies' bums and they lounge against each other giggling madly.

The idiot sillies finally leave them and Per stands up and gives John a hand up too. They buckle and zip and arrange like grown-ups as best they can, given missing buttons and torn knees and just-fucked, ass-over-teakettle drunkenness and so on.

"Another pint, then?" Per asks.

John takes a deep breath and pushes it out quickly. Blinks his eyes wide, tries to sober himself up, tries to get a grip on everything all over again and feels like he manages it a bit. Shakes his head.

"No. No…thanks. About to fall over as it is." He doesn't want to, but he can feel Per considering him, so he looks up into the dark eyes that are nothing like the ones he really wants to see looking at him like that.

"I guess it wouldn't do to ask for your number, would it?" Per says carefully.

"No….No, not really….I guess it wouldn't."

"Not close enough to the person I remind you of."

"Not that. It's just….It wouldn't be fair." John hesitates, wishing for the first time that night that Per wasn't so tall and thin, didn't have those cheekbones and that voice. "To any of us."

"Does he even know you're trying to be fair?"

John doesn't answer this, just clears his throat and not very subtly looks around for an exit.

Per shrugs. He looks away too, for a moment and then back, begins grinning like a schoolboy. "Well. Anyway. Thank you. That was….Really….Good."

"Yes. Yes. I think so too." John realizes he's rocking unsteadily.

"Well. I'm around…." Per waves vaguely at the neighborhood.

"Yes. Alright," John says, even as he shakes his head. He will never come back here. He knows it.

"I'll at least wait for a cab with you," Per offers.

"You don't have to."

"I know. It's alright. I want to."

So John lets him, even if the thinks it isn't really fair.

Outside 221B Baker Street John pauses, still swaying a bit. The light in the sitting area is still on, of course. Even when Sherlock sleeps he leaves lights on. John straightens and settles himself a little. He can manage this, after all.

"Thought you were with Sarah for the duration." Sherlock greets him without much interest in his voice, without looking up from where he sits on the couch, feet on the coffee table, computer resting on his long thighs.

"No. Never said that," John replies as he unzips his coat. He likes pointing out when Sherlock's deductions are wrong and, as always, Sherlock pretends to ignore him when he does. But it rankles, John is sure of it.

"Mmm…."

John hesitates in taking off his coat, remembering the state of his buttons. Or lack thereof. But Sherlock's fingers frantically click keys, so he knows he and his buttons are safe from scrutiny.

John heads unsteadily for the bathroom, pretending to remove the shirt that is already falling off him. Along the way his foot hits a newly laid obstacle of stacked books and he stumbles. Sherlock glances up and lifts an eyebrow as John swears and flails to keep himself upright.

"You look a bit scuffed," Sherlock notes casually.

"Just a little tiff at the bar," John shrugs, and tries setting course for the bathroom again. "Nothing, really…. Over in a minute…. Had a bit too much afterwards."

"Not like you."

"How would you know?" John snaps before he can stop himself.

Sherlock squints at him. It's the look Sherlock puts on when he can't understand why somebody is reacting illogically to what he thinks is a perfectly logical, undeniable, and not even particularly interesting fact.

John decides to ignore it, clamps his mouth shut before he gives anything more away and plows on towards the bathroom, which seems to be somehow receding backward for every step he takes forward.

"Sure you're alright, then?" Sherlock asks blandly, looking back at his computer screen, apparently having decided before the words were out of his mouth that John was and that he didn't really care much one way or the other anyway.

"Nothing a hangover won't cure." Finally settling a hand on the bathroom doorframe, John looks at Sherlock for a long moment, willing Sherlock to look back at him.

_I will tell him. If he looks at me I will tell him everything. I'll tell him about how I feel. I'll tell him what I want. I'll tell what I let Per do to me and then that I let him go because I wanted to be fair. At least it will be out there. At least he will have to consider it. Consider me._

But, hands held in a prayerful attitude in front of his lips, Sherlock is lost in thought again, scampering off into that funhouse maze of a brain where nobody else can follow him.

John knows that it is hopeless to try.

He closes his eyes and presses his head into the jamb. He thinks about Per. What a normal sort of person he seemed. He probably eats three meals a day and doesn't keep body parts in the freezer and follows a football team. He probably has friends, needs other people around him, wants to be loved, likes to be touched, sometimes even when he's not expecting it. He probably thinks that death isn't a laughing matter and that getting shot at is a bit more excitement than he's willing to run around looking for. He can probably admit it when he makes a mistake.

Perhaps he owns a dog.

John turns on the shower, very hot, strips his clothes off and steps into it. He uses lots of soap and scrubs the alley dirt and blood and scraped skin and traces of lip balm and the scent of Per off his body. Tomorrow he will wake up and go back to loving Sarah, because he does love her. He adores her, the softness of her, her kindness, the way she now refuses to know anything about what he and Sherlock get up to when she's not around. He loves her the way he can only love a woman.

This thing tonight, it just happens sometimes. It's just a need. It comes upon him and he takes care of it and it's over. He's not ashamed of it, but he doesn't talk about it, tries not to think about it much when he's not feeling that way. The way one doesn't think about being thirsty when one isn't. It's always been that way.

Until he met Sherlock.

_I tumbl at: kijakazibibi_


End file.
